


Safe Breaking

by secretidentity



Series: Grey Areas [3]
Category: Spy vs Spy
Genre: Abuse, Bondage, Boot Worship, Breathplay, Death Threats, Dubious Consent, Gunplay, Handcuffs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rivalry, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretidentity/pseuds/secretidentity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The White spy’s grand plans of duping the Black Nation fall astray, but he’ll happily accept his consolation prize.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Another lightly edited installment of my _Grey Areas_ series, originally posted to Y!Gallery ages ago. Can stand alone well enough.
> 
> Like my other Spy vs. Spy stories, this is filthy and violent. Please heed the warnings.
> 
> Contains author-typical abuse of the humble semi-colon.

Come on, come on come on come on _come on._

White’s heart beats faster as he presses his stethoscope tight to the safe door and turns the dial infinitesimally further to the left. Just that one sound, that one little click to let him know that the combination is just right - the spindle has picked up the last wheel - _the last digit, come on!_

Places to go, documents to procure, just one last - _click._

Success!

He pulls the levered handle open and reaches a gloved hand inside the dark safe to possess his goal; a fat document promised to be full to bursting with top-secret information regarding the Black Nation’s embassy leaders and many of their best spies. Information that could truly turn the tide of this cold war, once and for all.

Information like _names_. Listed in alphabetical order with everyone’s title and division typed conveniently in the second and third columns. Another document in a different office will match the names in this file to their contact information, which can be traced to their mailing addresses. From there it’s a simple task of locating and dispatching agents to tie up loose ends. _This_ is why White loves bureaucrats.

He’s already decided that after securing the document, he’ll need to spend some private time perusing it before reporting to his leader. There are a few names he wouldn't mind knowing. A few people he wouldn't mind paying visits to.

One black spy in particular.

Biting his lip in anticipation, White’s questing hand finds the cold, hard bottom of the safe. He feels around. One, two, four corners. And . . . shit. His heart plummets into his stomach. Someone’s beaten him to the punch; not only is _his_ document missing, but every document important enough to be kept in the Director’s safe is gone. White has no doubt in his mind that his intelligence was correct - no one can lie under that much duress and that leaves only one explanation.

The scenario builds in his head with absolute clarity; his third party contact from the Black Nation must have sang about the leaked intelligence, crawled back to the embassy and admitted his failure. Still, considering the state White had left him in it would have taken him a fair while to return to his embassy and in that case . . . There’s only one spy quick enough to have gotten here first - one person who would be trusted to protect the document. _That_ Black spy.

He’s probably in the shadows of this cold, dark office tower right now just waiting to make his move. From so many one-on-one fights, so many struggles to steal and protect and barter information and stop each other, they are more familiar than lovers and have more blood between them than brothers. He knows in his bones that Black is in the building somewhere, waiting. Watching.

He considers his options: He can either hightail it home and admit defeat, or he can stick around in this half-lit office and unearth a consolatory prize at the risk of running into his rival on his home field. Returning empty handed would look like cowardice, or worse; failure. White smiles privately. He may as well see what else this place has to offer him. It’s not like he doesn't have a variety of well-practiced tricks at his disposal if Black decides that watching isn't enough.

Besides, if he gets opportunity to tango with Black this trip will have been worthwhile. In the meantime, business is business. White stows his stethoscope in his bag before retrieving a flashlight and crouching in front of the filing cabinet on the far wall. Somewhere in these drawers something is bound to catch his attention. _A name, a number. A mission file._ Something to make this endeavor worthwhile.

And then he hears it. The distant hum of the fans in the ceiling can’t mask the sharp sound of a boot tapping against the threshold. A careless mistake on Black’s part - and it had to be Black, there’s no one else it could be, no one else . . . It’s enough of a warning that White can wait and listen, pretending to scan through the hanging folders in the cabinet with his thin beam of light. Even though Black is making an effort to be silent, White _knows_ he’s in the room now. Is he preparing a killing blow? Is there a cold knife in his hand, indifferently waiting to slide across White’s exposed throat?

He feels Black’s shadow fall across his back and doesn't wait to find out. White turns quickly, smashing Black on the outside of his knee with the butt of his flashlight. The plastic shatters and the batteries roll across the floor - his rival cries out “Fuck!” but doesn't drop. White expected this and follows up by grabbing Black around the calves and pushing his body forwards, knocking his opponent to the ground before he can regain his balance.

There is adrenaline surging through White’s body, beating through his heart, making his actions sharp and his mind sharper. White catches a glimpse of what Black had been carrying; a pistol gripped around the barrel as if he had he been planning on beating White over the head with it. _Why bother when he could have shot me through the heart from the doorway?_ White pretends he doesn't know the answer to the question.

Black slams a fist into White’s jaw, knocking him backwards so that he strikes his head against the opposite wall. Taking advantage of his recumbent position, Black tosses his gun aside and follows White down, planting his hands on White’s chest and quickly climbing on top of him to straddle his waist. He wraps both hands around White’s throat and _squeezes._

The pressure on his neck triggers a panic reaction in White, his mind races - _shit hurts can’t breathe, get it together just get him the fuck off -_ The usually pale skin of White’s throat is stark through the gaps between Black’s gloved fingers, blushing only as he starts to choke. His vision is growing dark around the edges and he is clawing instinctively at Black’s wrists, bucking his hips up, trying to knock his assailant off of him. _Think, God. Think! Get him off, get him the fuck off!_

“I've got you-” White bucks harder, his face turning red from effort and lack of oxygen. “-right where you belong.” Black smirks and rides White’s thrashing professionally. He’s feeling confident, like the conquering victor and doesn't register the intent of White’s leg twisting around his throbbing knee until he’s flipped over. He lands heavily on his back and White slips out of his surprised grip. White pushes, struggles and fights against his enemy’s fumbling attempts at holding him until he is kneeling wedged between Black’s thighs, breathing hard and slowly rubbing his pink neck with one hand.

He grins at Black. “Where I belong, huh?” Black immediately wraps his legs around White’s hips in a guard position. They both know this dance like their basic arithmetic; everything is logic and perfect and grappling like this is second nature.

Black is snarling and curling his fists in White’s lapels. He’ll drop his knees and prepare a throw - White’s seen it before but he can’t have a counter-move prepared for every bit of Jujitsu that Black has picked up, so he interrupts Black with a mischievous smirk instead. Fighting dirty is what White is best at. He pointedly rocks his hips against Black, who almost bites through his own lip in response. _Perfect._ Their eyes meet, anger flashing through Black’s expression.

“Don’t. You fucking. Dare.” 

This time White grinds down, rolling like a wave. A moan, and then Black’s legs slacken, providing him the perfect opportunity to escape Black’s guard and straddle him. “This could go on forever, you know.”

“I’ll best you eventually.”

“Keep telling yourself that. In the meantime, as much as I love proving you wrong again and again I have places to go and information to steal, so please. Admit defeat and we can go our separate ways.” Black snorts.

“Why would I? I bet I could have you in a submission hold in five minutes.”

White laughs, “I bet you won’t get the chance.” He stands up, pulling a derringer out of his leg holster as he does so. Black scrambles, reaching for the gun he had dropped earlier. He’s half a minute too slow - White kicks Black’s abandoned weapon and it skitters across the floor, out of reach. He points his derringer steadily at Black’s face with a crooked grin on his lips. During their struggle White had maneuvered, sandwiching Black between himself and a wall with little chance of escape.

Black’s stands slowly to face White eye to eye, his hands flexing at his sides. “You've only got one shot in that.”

“Do you think I’d need more than one? I don’t know what you were playing at earlier, but I for one am not shy to use bullets.” 

“Then by all means, demonstrate.” He can’t help himself from pressing the point, calling White on his bluff. He knows that if White wants more he’ll save that particular bullet for later, and he’s willing to bet that White is after something other than his stone dead corpse.

Now that White has Black where he wants him, he’s bound to take advantage. With Black panting in front of him, with no where to go and _smirking_. . . it wasn't his original intention, he’d started out chasing that Black Nation document but . . . what a wonderful bonus. One of his job’s more recent perks. The opportunity and the ability to make Black moan, to sweat for different reasons other than the ones their work usually provides pleases him terribly.

How could he do anything other than gratefully take what’s handed to him? With this idea in mind and the determination of beating Black into submission, wiping that cocky expression off of his face, White throws a punch at Black.

The black spy’s head snaps side and his nose bends, breaks under White‘s knuckles. The pain is explosive - “Shit! **Fuck!** ” His hands fly up to belatedly protect his bleeding nose and to assess the damage. 

As Black moans and covers his sorry face with his hands, White unbuttons Black’s suit jacket and starts working the buttons of the shirt underneath open one-handed. “The hell . . .” Black’s blood covered hands move to push at White’s arms, to fight back. White ends the struggle quickly by pushing the barrel of his gun up under Black’s chin and cocking it, forcing his enemy to stand still and submit to this.

“You’re getting blood on me,” White states in a low, controlled voice. “I don’t like that.” He shrugs off his own jacket and tosses it aside. The top buttons of his shirt are already undone, and he hadn't put on a tie to begin with. After all, ties can too easily be converted for use as a noose. 

Black sniffs, his words are muffled but White understands perfectly. “You should have thought of that before you broke my nose, asshole.” White pushes Black’s shirt and jacket off of his shoulders before dragging his undershirt up, over his head and off. The cold office air makes Black’s breath hitch and his exposed nipples perk. 

White pinches one of those nipples and twists it, wringing a moan from Black’s tight throat. His hands come up again to bat away White, to stop him, argue - anything. White merely twists harder and threatens Black with a movement from his gun. “I want you to keep your dirty hands at your sides. Keep them there, bastard.” Black’s not shaking but the blood is still flowing from his nose, dripping over his scowl and down his chin. He lets his arms hang at his sides and takes the abuse.

White thoughtfully flicks his fingernail against Black’s now swollen, red nipple before leaning in and biting the opposite one. “Ah - aah!” Black raises his hands before remembering White’s words and returns them to the wall behind him, streaking blood on the stark white paint. He writhes against White’s busy mouth and fingers when he sucks gently and fondles him, but shrinks away when White applies his teeth until his spine is flat against the cold wall.

The ache in his chest echoes the ache in his knee, swollen from the hit he’d received from the flashlight earlier. He gives up, slumping against the wall and rattling the lateral filing cabinet as his legs give out. He lands heavily on his ass and glares up at White. The other spy has already stepped closer, crowding Black until his feet are occupying the carpet between Black’s spread knees. 

“Mm, I love seeing you on the ground. It’s where you belong.” Black growls; White shouldn't be given the opportunity to use his own words against him, and he shouldn't be smirking like that; today was supposed to be Black’s victory. He rises slightly in an enraged attempt to stand but is stopped by the sole of White’s boot pressing on the fly front of his trousers, pushing him down until he’s sitting again and grimacing.

“Stay there.”

The sole of White’s shoe is smooth from long nights spent pacing on stakeouts and Black swallows a groan as White uses it to stroke his package. Black briefly grabs at White’s leg; his intentions are not obvious. is he encouraging or protesting? Regardless, his opinions on the situation do not matter. “Tch.” White taps the barrel of his gun menacingly against Black's cheek. A small sound squeaks through Black’s lips. He drops his arms and _surrenders._

White languidly rubs Black’s groin until he can feel the nervous beginnings of an erection pushing up to match his movements. The toe of White’s boot slips down to lift and tease at his scrotum, wringing a needy moan out of Black. White’s exited eyes glint at Black in the half-light as he chuckles, “Really. You’re this aroused already? I've barely even started . . .” White pulls on the back of Black’s neck, encouraging him to ride the upper of his boot; to hump against his leg. 

His hands twitch but Black obediently complies to White’s urging and leaves his arms hanging at his sides. He rests his face against White’s hip, panting quietly as his groin slides over and over that smooth, pale leather. It excites White to have Black thrusting against his leg like a dog in heat; it’s completely appropriate, in its own way. It more than makes up for the missing document. _Ah, right. The missing document._

That had been his mission for this evening, hadn't it. He tries to get his mind back on track but it’s so distracting to have Black moving against him like that . . . and now the creep is rubbing his face against the front of White’s trousers (it’ll be hell getting the blood stains out, later) and he’s just getting harder. “Hey - where is the file?”

Black laughs against White’s clothed prick, burying his face next to it so that his expression is unreadable. “Intelligence is the greatest weapon in any war. That’s our specialty.” He pauses to moan, “I-infiltration, discovery and misdirection. False leads.”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

“I fed your source information. He honestly believed you were interrogating him over a real document. Quaint.” White stills completely. His rival laughs and continues to press his erection against the curve of White’s boot. “I bet he tried to protect the information - he was a decent puppet; you must have had to break him before he spilled it.”

“False . . . false information.” Disgusted, White takes his foot back from Black and drives a single, short kicks straight into Black’s solar plexus, forcing him an inch off the carpet. Black’s breath leaves him in a rush - he fails to inhale and coughs, chokes and finally breathes, his lungs working around the foot still pressing up under his ribs. He chokes and coughs again, spittle and blood flying from his mouth and landing on White’s otherwise immaculate pant leg.

Fuck trying to get these stains out himself, “Tch. I’ll send you my dry cleaning bill.” White drags one hand through Black’s messy hair before grasping a handful forcing him to raise his face. He slides his foot down gently over Black’s abdomen and steps the heel of his boot onto Black’s groin roughly, putting enough of his weight on it to cause Black to hiss and arch. He blushes bright pink and closes one eye in surprised pain.

The faint light in the room, provided by the street lamp’s garish glare sneaking through the slats in the blinds, disguises White’s expression. Only his mouth is clearly visible, and it is firmly set in a straight line. “Let’s get this straight. I came all the way here,” his fists tighten, “on false information that you personally fed to my source.”

Black meets his gaze steadily. “Yeah. That’s what I’m **saying.** ”

“. . . So this was a trap.” That heel grinds down harder on Black’s stubborn erection. He whimpers piteously and White continues, “One that you had planned for ahead of time and even prepared for. That you’d set for me in particular.”

“I-It didn't turn out exactly the way I imagined it would.” White snorts and rests the barrel of his derringer against Black’s forehead.

“How did you imagine it turning out, then?”

A slow, sly grin creeps across Black’s lips. “Well, I imagined you’d be a lot more naked.”

White looks unimpressed. “I don’t appreciate being made a fool of.”

“. . . Anyone would have fallen for bait that juicy-”

“Take out your prick.”

Black breathes for a moment, searching White’s face for a clue as to his intentions beyond the obvious but White has schooled himself well; Black learns nothing from the mask-like expression of malice his rival is wearing. White prods Black with his derringer. “I said. _Take out your prick._ Unless you’re looking to gain another hole in your head I would suggest you do as you are told.”

A pair of shaking hands open the front of Black’s trousers and he pulls them a little way down his hips, easing his boxers down past his erection in the process. It bounces up eagerly, slim and hard and vulnerable. The derringer rams against his face again, rougher than before so that Black can feel his teeth dig into the soft skin inside his cheek. “That’s right. Show me just how desperate you are.”

“Sick bastard.” Nevertheless, Black complies. Never looking away from White’s smug face, he takes his cock in hand and strokes it once, deliberately. 

“Tch. Not like that.” A gentle nudge from White's boot says more than words alone ever could.

“ _Sick. Bastard._ ” White makes an amused sound and slips his boot into the gap between Black’s balls and his boxers, pushing his clothes further down with his foot. He rests his hands on Black’s shoulders and puts weight on them, making Black sit on top of his shoe again.

He rocks his foot up, making Black hiss as his bare scrotum makes contact with the cool leather. He sits painfully still for a moment until it warms up and then begins to slowly, obediently hump against White’s boot, his cock slipping in his own pre-come. “. . . You really want a taste of my cock again, don’t you?” White pets Black’s head affectionately, as if he were a pet. He smirks to himself and drops his hand to finger Black’s lips, still bloody from his broken nose.

Black licks at White‘s proffered fingers and mutters: “God - if it means that I’ll get out of this room, I’ll even suck your _leader’s_ cock.” before taking them into his mouth, carefully covering his teeth and sucking. It makes White feel sick and powerful and fuck, that’s not a mental image he ever wanted to have, but still. Black’s lips are stretched around his intruding digits and he can feel his moans vibrating through his hand, hot and wet and perfect.

“Mmph.” He thrusts his fingers in and out of Black’s mouth and rubs the palate with the tips, making Black drop his jaw open in a moan and _shudder_ against his leg, grinding himself onto White’s boot in excitement. “Fucking. Whore.” White pulls his belt free and releases the button on his pants. He takes his cock out and pumps it slowly while watching Black. 

Black’s mouth makes an obscene popping sound as he raises his head from White‘s fingers. “If I‘m a whore, what would that make you? Crying out for more during our last encounter - fucking yourself with my . . . umph,” White guides his cock between Black’s lips, muffling any further comments.

“Shut up. I want you to suck me like you mean it. Or else.” Black half-closes his dark eyes and does as he’s told, sealing his lips tight around the head of White’s cock and sucking hard. “Don’t get any blood on my prick.” The derringer in White's hand glints faintly, the barrel trained on Black’s skull. He obviously takes the threat as incentive and laps at White’s slit, runs his tongue enthusiastically under the glans. 

Black snuffles back blood as he starts to bob his head up and down on White’s length, taking in as much as he can until his lips are mashing against White’s fist. But fuck, Black can _swallow_ his _whole dick_ and he remembers the last time . . . So White moves his hand off of his cock to run it through Black’s hair instead, petting him steadily as Black swallows the shaft in his mouth, throat working around White’s girth.

Black humps White’s boot faster, his cock straining against the white leather. He gurgles something around the meat in his mouth and grinds down, shaking with effort. White murmurs encouragement and caresses Black’s head, rocking short little thrusts against the back of Black’s throat and he’s being so strangely kind - so . . . Black’s hands flex, he thrusts and shoots his load on White’s shoe. 

_Fuck. That’s . . ._ “Disgusting. Look at this mess you made.” White rubs his now slick shoe along the underside of Black’s softening cock. Black’s mouth drops open; he pants and pulls off of White‘s prick to moan properly. He’s red in the face, sweating with effort and he looks. Exhausted. He rests his forehead against White‘s hip and tries to catch his breath. “Clean it up.”

A moment of silence, followed by a breathless laugh. “. . . You've got to be fucking joking.”

He fists Black‘s hair and drags his head back. The derringer is pointing up under his jaw again and Black is thinking that this game is getting old. “Do I _sound_ like I’m joking?”

Black eyes White’s stiff erection. “You’re psychopathic.”

“No, just particular. I don’t enjoy having your ejaculate on me.” White releases Black with a shove and slips his foot out from underneath Black. “However, I do enjoy seeing you on your hands and knees. Do as I say.”

Black spares a nervous glance upwards before shifting onto his knees and elbows, his face getting closer to the mess on White’s shoe with every breath. The position is awkward and having his ass in the air feels vulnerable, but it’s an awful lot better than having a hole blown through his skull. He chances a swipe across the leather with his tongue. This . . . _this_ is what’s disgusting. He can’t taste the street through the heavy flavour of his own come but just the idea, the _submission._

“Fuck . . . yes.” Seeing Black on his knees, lapping at his shoe is almost enough to make him come. Having him at his feet like this, cleaning his shoe with his _fucking tongue._ White closes a fist around his erection and starts squeezing, pulling on his length while watching Black work. 

When Black starts curling his tongue around the sides of his boot, red in the face from a cocktail of shame an impotent anger, White moans and pumps himself just a little bit harder, a bit faster. _This is it._

“Look at me.” Black obeys, raising his eyes oh-so-slowly before White’s come hits his face. He winces in surprise as it slides down his cheek. It drips down the side of his nose, mingling with the crusting blood from earlier. White grabs Black’s head and pushes his member inside of that wet mouth, thrusting a few times before sighing and releasing the last shot of his come down Black’s convulsing throat.

He pulls out and ruffles Black’s hair in a gesture that could easily be mistaken for affection. Black merely scowls and mutters, “Nnng, fuck . . . you **asshole**.” He attempts to wipes the blood and come off of his face with the back of his hand but only succeeds in smearing it further. 

“You’re a mess.”

A rueful laugh, “Who’s fault is that?”

White scratches Black behind the ear, making him to moan and press up into White’s hand and damn it - the man is half-hard _again._ Black’s lips fall open and this time White doesn't let hesitation rob him of his chance. Black is _filthy_ and that’s _beautiful;_ He bends down and steals a real kiss from Black‘s panting lips.

Black is struggling and scratching in protest but the kiss persists - White’s mouth slowly and carefully caress Black’s own, paying no mind to the fight. When White slides his tongue inside with a soft hum, Black’s hands fly up. Their fingers meet around the derringer’s handle, tangle for a moment and then . . . and then . . . _shit._ Black is pointing his own gun at his head. 

An amateur mistake.

“Smooth.”

“I try.” Black stands, his pants pooling around his ankles as he points the barrel of his gun straight at White’s chest. His half-hard cock bobs in front of him. “Besides, what made you think I wanted your slobber on me in the first place?” White doesn't say a word; he just meaningfully eyes Black’s rising erection and smirks.

The implication is enough to shatter what’s left of Black’s nerves. He brutally cracks his knuckles against White’s face, the derringer adding extra weight to his punch.

Falling back from the blow, White can taste the blood from where his teeth broke the skin inside his cheek. He pointedly feels his jaw and licks his lips, making a show out of assessing Black’s punch. He grins and earns himself another hit, harder than the last. The force from makes his head snap sideways and his vision cloud for a moment. Blood drops from his mouth to the white collar of his shirt and the pain shoots through his face; it’s a familiar situation. Black really does have a mean right hook.

With a scowl, Black kicks the pants encumbering his legs off and out of his way. He keeps his gun trained on the dazed spy as he looks around your room and spots White’s bag sitting on top of a cabinet.

“This is yours, right?” Black doesn't wait for an answer before pulling open the zip and digging through it one-handed, placing odd tools of the trade on the table, seemingly searching for something. He grins deviously when he finds it. White shivers - he denies the masochist inside but seeing Black make that face, knowing that he has something planned . . . excites him.

Black pulls a pair of handcuffs from the bag and swings them casually on his finger where White can see them. He walks around behind White and takes his hands without asking, securing them at the small of his back with the cuffs.

“Given enough time, these are easy to get out of-”

“Not yours. I know you mod your handcuffs. If you think back a few months, you’ll remember that I've been in them.” God, he does remember. He remembers that he left Black wailing in a warehouse basement and had to pull one off in the alley immediately after leaving the building. It’s not something he’s proud of, but it still makes him hot to think about it - his rival looked so fucking good when he was helpless, defeated. 

Black is anything but helpless now, and he strides confidently around White so that he is standing in front of him regardless of his obvious erection and complete nudity. White notes with amusement that Black is full mast, and all it took was slamming him around with his fists for a few minutes. “Sadist.”

Black’s mouth twists. “You’re one to talk.” 

After a moment of silence White states “Nice refractory period, by the way.”

White can almost _hear_ Black blush, “Shut _up_.”

“Are you like this all the time, or is it just when you’re with me?”

“I said - _shut up!_ ” Black turns his foot and kicks White’s middle like it’s a soccer ball. He’s never been very good at keeping it to his fists and White has had ample opportunities to learn this intimately. He feels pressure building inside as Black kicks him again and then again. He exhales sharply with every blow, folds over on himself and Black lands one kick to the side of his head, knocking him into his side and blurring his vision.

He lays there, catching his breath, twisting his wrists in the unforgiving ‘cuffs. Fuck, if only he had left his favourite pair at home that day, this wouldn't be happening. He wouldn't be laying on this worn-down carpet in this cold office and - fuck. He sound of slapping flesh and heavy breathing distracts him.

He looks up at Black pulling on his own cock and a sick part of White is suddenly glad he didn't leave his ’cuffs at home.

Black is staring down at White’s disheveled, panting form as he jerks himself off, alternatively squeezing his head and then fisting his shaft. The thing that strikes White the most is that through this whole scenario, Black has managed to keep his gloves on. White spits out blood and laughs, “You can’t get enough, can you. You’re just. A fucking slut for it.” Another kick to his abdomen has him curling up, grunting.

“Asshole. Coming on me like . . . like I was some whore. . .”

“You _are_ a whore. And you loved it.”

Black’s next kick to his belly makes White grimace and cry out, “Fuck!-” and Black is still stroking his prick, pointing it straight at White’s contorted mouth. White moans and turns his face into the carpet in a passive gesture of defiance. His shoulders are shaking - _I’m not, I’m not shaking, fuck. I've been hurt worse, it’s hurt worse, just. God -_ and he’s still twisting his hands in those 'cuffs, even if there’s no escape; just so he can feel like this isn't consensual, like he doesn't want this. Just so he can pretend . . . 

“Bastard, fucking _bastard -_ ” and Black comes on him, his ejaculate splashing onto the edge of White’s silvery hair and running down his cheek. White presses his lips closed tightly as it touches the corner of his mouth and curses mentally.

“Like I said earlier. . . _right where you belong._ ” Black smirks as he uses his foot to push White onto his back so he can see that flushed face, dirtied with his come. He looks down at his trumped rival with a smug expression. 

Black tugs his soiled gloves off and drops them wetly onto White’s heaving belly, the come sinking into his rumpled shirt. 

“If you will excuse me, I have to clean myself up and make a few phone calls concerning your transportation . . .” His voice becomes quiet and White has to strain his ears to hear, “I have orders concerning you this time. They wanted you alive. For now.”

Black dresses quickly, pulling on his clothes with determined professionalism. “It wasn't my idea.” He slips his stocking feet back into his shoes and pushes White’s derringer into his back pocket. “If that’s any consolation for you.”

_Orders . . . ?_

_Wait - for now?_

He’d known it was coming, of course. Specific orders for his capture or termination. Everything before had been fun and games, but now . . . now the Black Nation’s embassy is specifically out to get him. His laugh is small, twisted. Black shifts his weight from foot to foot before slapping his bravado back on, as strong as ever.

“Give me five minutes on the phone, and then I’ll be back to entertain you.” A falsely jovial salute. “Cheers.”

White watches Black’s legs as he walks to the door and exits the room, his foot tapping on the threshold as he exits. 

_Amateur._  
\---

White is gone by the time Black returns.

He’s left his bag but it doesn't have any information in it - just standard tools of the trade and an old-fashioned bone saw. Useless. It makes sense considering he couldn't have carried it while making his escape; there is no doubt in Black’s mind that White is still in those handcuffs. 

The blinds are haphazardly pulled aside - he must have been unable open them correctly in his given situation. The window was a different matter entirely. It’s be simple for a spy of White’s calibre to open a window with both hands behind his back, so to speak.

He must have used that scaffold to escape. Convenient. Had he planned ahead?

Black is surprised at the feeling of mixed joy and regret that rises in his chest as he stares at his ruined gloves laying on the plain carpet where White had been just a few minutes ago. He _escaped._ They’ll meet again and it won’t be in a dark interrogation room. Not quite yet, anyway.

He’s still staring when his team arrives, swift and silent and dangerous. They fill the room like shadows and the black metal of their guns shine brightly. He hears them asking the same, standard questions: “Where is he?” “You have the target in custody?” “Agent Black; the target‘s location please.” but he’s only half listening.

He finds himself smiling as he shrugs and says, “He escaped.”


End file.
